


A Mole's Point Of View

by DixieDale



Category: Clan O'Donnell - Fandom, Garrison's Gorillas
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-22
Updated: 2020-08-22
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:27:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,464
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26025712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DixieDale/pseuds/DixieDale
Summary: In which Garrison, Sergeant Major Rawlins and the guys come to realize, everyone has a point of view - even a mole.
Comments: 2





	A Mole's Point Of View

It wasn't that he liked being shot at, or liked putting his guys at risk. Still, some days Garrison prayed for a good complicated mission to occupy his mind, something interesting, or at least something a little more connected to the war he was supposed to be fighting. 

So, yeah, they'd only been back a week from that last shoot-em-up fiasco that they'd been damned lucky to walk away from intact. But when he looked over his notes of the issues he'd dealt with since they'd gotten back, he shook his head. 

"No one would believe it! I could put all of this in my memoirs, and the reader would think I was delusional or a total slacker. I can see the letters now, sternly scolding me, "petty thievery? Ladies' clubs? Garden pests? And this was what you were wasting your time on, LIEUTENANT, instead of fighting the war??! Let's leave the wartime memoirs to those who actually were involved in WINNING it, shall we??!" And, I don't know that I would blame them, not judging from the last few days!"

A missing constable's badge. Members of a ladies' book club presenting their complaints AND what they felt to be an ideal solution. Moles overrunning the grounds (or would that be undermining the grounds?). Surely these weren't the vital things a serving officer should be dealing with! Certainly none of his instructors at West Point, or any of HIS commanding officers had made mention of such things being the norm.

{"Just a nice little bit of espionage, perhaps an enemy agent or two, maybe a bridge to blow up, a top-secret installation to infiltrate, some nefarious plot to foil! That's all I'm asking for! SOMETHING!"}

Before the month was over, he was going to have to admit, at least to himself - one of these days, he was going to have to start being a little more careful what he wished for! Sergeant Major Rawlins was insisting on it, in fact!

"We 'ave a problem, Lieutenant," Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins said in some frustration, sticking his head in to address Lieutenant Garrison, currently bent over his desk in intense concentration. "Thought I should let you know before I bring anyone else in on it; someone could likely get 'urt the way things are 'eaded."

Garrison looked up distractedly, running his hand through his hair as he brought his mind back from trying to pinpoint the exact moment when he'd realized Marcella Smith, smiling and helpful tea girl at the Base canteen, really was the mole at the HQ Lisbon Street Annex. When had he realized there was just something off about her?

Was it something she'd said, something she'd done that had convinced him Colonel Carlin had been right about the culprit? Or had it just been that ruffling of the hair on the back of his neck when she'd passed by, giving him that friendly little wink and smile? That stirring that he thought of as his early warning system? No matter how pretty Miss Smith might be, with her bouncing curls and winning ways, it certainly hadn't been his libido talking to him! 

Not that he didn't have one. He did, though he'd seriously tried to ignore it for the duration. It was just that, after forcing itself out of that cage Garrison had shoved it into, it seemed to have other plans for him, plans that didn't involve Marcella Smith or anyone resembling her! No, it had focused solely on one target, and like a sharpshooter, hadn't taken its gaze away for one second. Well, except for certain in-the-line-of-duty encounters, though he didn't count those, them being what Goniff so earnestly insisted should be called 'only our patriotic duty!'.

He laughed to himself sometimes, once he finally realized why it had been THAT easy to tell his earthy side to just ignore the ladies who tried to catch his eye. {"And I was so proud of myself, so smug about that firm self-discipline, that steadfast concentration on my duty!! Craig Garrison - the stern professional, putting his duty, the job ahead of any frivolous personal needs or desires! So much for fighting the good fight, triumphing over all odds! A lot easier to abstain when the target just isn't all that tempting! And all it took was a pair of mischievious blue eyes and an impish smile to make me see the light! Well, and a few good thumps on the head by Professor Milford!"}

The pages of scribbled notes he'd made about that Lisbon Street affair were just random thoughts so far. But writing it all down, making his notes, that was how he made sense out of the things that didn't seem to MAKE any sense. That was how he moved things around in his mind, let the lines form connecting the dots, til the combination became clear pictures.

In this case, the lines connected the dots from Marcella Smith to her beloved younger brother, Bradley. The line that connected that brother to a commanding officer who took no interest in, and had even less concern for, the men under his command other than as counters on a battle map. The next dot was the cold letter of 'condolences' the young woman had received, one explaining without a hint of compassion or really any feeling at all, that her beloved brother had 'made an unfortunate error in judgement resulting in his demotion and subsequent demise'. 

Garrison still had a few more dots to locate, since the case of Miss Smith and her brother bothered him more than a little. What had Miss Smith really been trying to accomplish with her activities? What had that 'error in judgement' involved; had it been preventable with a little more oversight or better leadership? How had Corporal Smith's 'demise' come about, by his own hand, by the intervention of others, and if the latter, to what purpose? The odd absence of any real details in that file in general records had his suspicious nature aroused, and as usual, would not let him stop picking at that itchy place it caused.

He'd been told the case was closed, the culprit apprehended, and that was the end of it, but he wasn't willing to leave it at that. More and more he knew he was missing something, and that made him less willing to just close the file and be done with it. No, he'd found himself with a new notebook, and the notes were growing, page by page.

He'd wondered at himself sometimes, that twitching of his fingers, desperate for pen and paper (or, if he was in the field, a stick and a blank spot of earth) when his mind started churning. But Meghada had just nodded, assured him her older sister Caeide had the same compulsion, and "while it can lead to some teasing, I have to admit what comes out of it is some of the clearest thinking you can imagine. You just go on making your notes, Craig; dare say they're more useful than even you can think."

He blinked rapidly, tearing himself away from THAT problem (or was that two separate problems? They seemed to run together sometimes) to whatever this new one might be. 

"What now??!" he asked Rawlins, dreading to hear the answer.

It had been a week of 'problems', of various kinds, and he was not particularly pleased to hear of one more, not unless it involved a real mission. From the look on Rawlins' face, he wasn't going to be that lucky.

Hopefully this new problem wouldn't include any of the members of his team. The events of the past week included a couple that HAD. Though, to be fair, he couldn't really place too much blame on Goniff OR Casino. 

Actually that had been rather surprising, since a good deal of the blame usually COULD be placed firmly at their doorstep - either singly or jointly - but this time, not so much, even though they were at the center of things, at least at first glance.

The problem involving Constable Miller's shiny metal insignia of office (the one that had disappeared right after Goniff had visited the constable's office at Garrison's stern behest) had been easily solved, thank goodness. He'd actually believed Goniff's indignant denial for once. 

"Steal 'is ruddy badge??! Why would I do that, now? Aint never impersonated no bobby, nor constable, nor anything of the like, Lieutenant! Well, not except for that time when you ordered me to, and that wasn't around 'ere. They get right pissed w'en you do that, you know? Purely got no sense of 'umor, most of them, I've found in my experience! Sides, it may be shiny and all, the way 'e keeps it polished up so nice, but it's just base metal, nothing special enough to bother with snaffling." 

It wasn't so much Goniff's expression of outraged innocence that convinced him. Lord knows the man had that look down cold, along with any number of equally misleading ones. (Garrison was working to memorize the entire repertoire, as well as figure out just how the Englishman pulled them off so effectively, but figured that might take him a lifetime! Well, everyone needed a hobby, or so he'd been told.)

It was more the offhand, slightly contemptuous, 'nothing special enough' - that was the capper. Goniff might have a weakness for the glittery, even for the bizarre, but 'base metal' probably WASN'T enough to tempt the man's wandering eyes or his sticky fingers. 

Gil Rawlins had done a little discreet snooping, and soon a red-faced and apologetic Joey Bemis had showed up at Miller's desk, his two playmates lagging along behind, offering that constable's badge in his grimy ten-year-old fingers. The three had been in Miller's office reporting a runaway puppy the same day the badge had gone missing, the Constable now remembered; in fact he had 'deputized' them to help in the 'urgent search' for the missing Tags. And that HAD been the same day Goniff had dropped off the fine for the team's last little run-in with the local regulations.

"We seen it there on your desk, and was just thinking it would make it official, Constable Miller, our investigating where Tags had gotten himself off to, and afterwards, once we found him, we kinda forgot we had it. We're sorry," had Miller chuckling in his proverbial beard, though he kept a stern face while he assigned the three to sweeping out the office as their punishment for making themselves free with his belongings. 

(He'd made a mental note to apologize to Goniff and the Lieutenant, at least he did before he realized his shiny letter opener was also missing. He considered asking a few pointed questions about that, pun fully intended, but somehow, it seemed easier to just use a knife from the kitchen drawer on the mail than to start another round up at the Mansion. He did leave a message with Gil Rawlins that the matter of the badge was finished business, though; that was only fair.)

The other problems Garrison had dealt with were pretty basic, repeats of previous ones, enough he dealt with them pretty much automatically, except for one that still had Garrison shaking his head. That one was a little special even in HIS ever-widening experience.

The complaint involved Casino, and was particularly puzzling, enough that he wondered if he was interpreting either the complaint or maybe the motive behind the complaint, maybe even the suggested resolution wrong. 

Well, that visit from the two ladies, the chairwoman and the co-chair of 'Three Red Roses', that ladies' reading club with members from Brandonshire along with the two closest villages, did consist of well-detailed complaints about Casino's lurid stories two of their members had just 'happened' to overhear on one of their outings. They thought it enough their business to come to him. 

"All in public, too! In the park, where just ANYONE could have heard him! CHILDREN might have heard! We could HARDLY let that go by unnoted, Lieutenant. Something really needs to be done!"

Well, he supposed he could see their point. 

(Well, no, he really couldn't, actually, though he wasn't sure he was up to explaining that to the prim ladies in the outlandish hats seated opposite him. That Casino had been with a group of like-minded guys, passing through the tiny park on their way back from the pub, probably hadn't even realized the females were in the park behind them, indicated there had been no offense intended.)

And Garrison was more than a little doubtful anyway - after all, the safecracker was usually polite, even wary, around women of this sort. And it seemed to him that the women could have kept a greater distance so as to avoiding hearing what they claimed to have so offended them, at least once they'd realized, or could have detoured off to one side. And a discreet cough to alert Casino he was being overheard would have been enough to make him stop immediately. But no, that hadn't happened, not if the two women had the time to hear not one, not two, but THREE off-color stories! 

And the remedy, the solution Miss Alton had put forward? That made him even more suspicious, although he did find some amusement in the whole notion, not just Casino's likely reaction, or the reaction of the rest of the team - just picturing the scene as she outlined it made him want to choke on his coffee. It was tempting, yes, in so many ways, but he brought himself sharply into line and declined as politely and professionally as he could manage. He even managed to keep that grin off his face while he was doing that. 

"I do understand your point of view, Miss Alton, and I will certainly speak to him about being more circumspect in public. But I'm afraid what you suggest, no matter how potentially beneficial, is just not feasible. The war effort requires his presence, you see, and having him away attending your reading group and teas and other such activities would unfortunately hamper that. Though it is a most valid point, of course, that having him interact with proper ladies such as yourselves on a regular basis would possibly lead him in a more dignified direction, allow him exposure to stories of a more refined nature than the ones you were so unfortunate as to overhear."

Frankly, he wasn't sure what the ladies had in mind for Casino, but there was a certain gleam in Miss Alton's eyes, matched by the glow in Mrs. Wilshire's, that spoke more to incipent lust than to educational or reforming furvor. 

His subsequent conversation with Miss Standish, over at the Orphanage, supported that suspicion. Well, Gil Rawlins had pointed him in that direction, and the wide grin on the non-com's face made the suggestion irresistible to Garrison. It seems Rawlins had heard a few things about the Three Red Roses reading club, though he firmly suggested Miss Standish would be the best one to clarify matters.

Afterwards, he wasn't sure if he was glad he'd made that visit or not; it had been interesting, yes, but also a little disconcerting.

As Rebecka Standish assured him, her lips quivering with restrained humor, she herself had considered becoming a member of that reading group when she'd first arrived in the village and received their invitation; indeed had been a temporary member for a short while. 

But as she put it, "I declined their invitation of permanent membership after a very few visits, pleading my conflicting responsibilities unfortunately left me with no time for even such worthwhile amusements. 

"To be quite frank, while I admit to a great fondness for classical literature, even occasionally offerings of a more frivolous sort, I found the meetings were more focused on, umm, other than the plot or character development or even the atmosphere of the books selected, Lieutenant. 

"The conversations seemed to revolve a great deal around the descriptions of the male characters' physical charms and attributes, far more detailed and imaginative than you would have assumed from the rather nondescript vagueries offered in those pages, those being limited to height, eye color, hair, whether he wore a moustache or glasses - that sort of thing. In fact, the conversation among the club members seemed to trend toward the highly personal, and soon expanded to avid speculations regarding similar characteristics of others NOT in the book, individuals they had encountered locally even. It got rather - shall we say, warm?? 

"I do not consider myself a prude, Lieutenant, my brother's occupation as a minister notwithstanding, but when Miss Clover pulled out a ruler and a variety of garden vegetables to illustrate her speculative comparisons, I must admit I was rather taken aback."

She politely ignored Garrison's coughing due to that piece of scone he'd swallowed wrong, merely sipped her tea and waited for him to catch his breath, then continued.

"Still, I had thought to give them the benefit of the doubt, thinking perhaps the unseasonably warm temperatures might have influenced their imaginations. That was before they announced the next reading selections, of course, and I made inquiries as to obtaining the requisite copies. 

"I believe my bookseller came very close to fainting when I gave him the titles I was requesting - 'The Pearl', 'Cruising Under False Colors', and 'The Autobiography of a Flea'. He was rather stiff in his response, that he did NOT carry "any such thing, Miss Standish - never have, never would, and I am appalled that anyone would have suggested any such to a fine lady like yourself!". Needless to say I was most surprised at his words, never having found HIM overly prudish either. After all, he has been able to obtain certain classical works for me that the more cautious would think unseemly for a woman, and he never turned a hair. But for these three?

"I checked with Miss O'Donnell, at the Cottage, to see if I might have misunderstood, or if I merely needed to consult a more open-minded bookseller. I have heard that she is extraordinarily well-read. She had no knowledge of those particular volumes, but made a phone call to her own bookseller, one she assured me was most open-minded, had a extremely extensive catalogue, and had no qualms about being truthful with her. There was a bit of a delay in her relaying the information, though I was sitting right there when she spoke with him on the telephone, as after she hung up, she could hardly catch her breath for laughing at what she was told! 

"Imagine my own shock at discovering the Three Red Roses had seemingly determined to next delve rather deeply into the field of Victorian erotica, possibly not for the first time, with those three books being considered by the experts as some of the most representative, or at least, among the more outrageous of their times! I have never before encountered some of the topics Miss O'Donnell said were covered, and she firmly declined to provide detailed definitions, though a less prudish woman I'm sure I've never met.

"I gave my regrets to the Three Red Roses upon returning home; well, after I checked the large dictionary. Only a few of those words were listed, Miss O'Donnell kindly explaining some of the other terms were vulgar euphemisms, though she declined to tell me euphemisms for WHAT exactly. Still, the few definitions I DID find were more than enough, I assure you! I do admit to a lingering curiosity, but find myself reluctant to do any further research for some reason."

Garrison remembered choking over his cup of tea at that point, wondering at that low chuckle from the minister's sister. No, he'd say she wasn't exactly a prude, not if she was willing to share that scene or the one before, along with finding the whole concept more than a little amusing, or so it seemed to him. Her summation seemed to support that conclusion on his part.

"It is quite possible your man might find himself in uncharted waters of some depth, wherein he just might find those proverbial man-eating creatures mythology warned us about. He might well be up to the task, of course, and I'm not saying Casino might not find participation both illuminating and rewarding, at least in some ways, Lieutenant, but I doubt it would improve his repertoire of stories acceptable for polite company. After all, I think, for all his rough ways, he is far too much the gentleman to be spreading THOSE sort of tales! And I fear he just might return to you in a state of exhaustion that might impede his subsequent performance on one of your treks elsewhere, should the timing be unfortunately close.

"Would you like another cup of tea, Lieutenant?" Miss Standish had asked politely, serene smile on her face.

No, Garrison wouldn't be forgetting that conversation anytime soon!

"Moles" came the disgusted reply from the Sergeant Major in response to Garrison's "what now, Gil?"

"And not just one, possibly! Though even just one can do a world of damage before you catch the sneaky little devil! 'Aving to watch every step, making sure the treacherous beast doesn't totally undo you."

"Moles? We've got a spy? Do you have any idea WHO??!"

Well, Garrison HAD started to wonder when Private Morrison had brought him that piece of paper he'd found floating around the courtyard, but it hadn't really been anything important, just a few stray notes, and the window to his office HAD been open and it had gotten windy before he'd remembered to close it. He'd put it down to carelessness on his part, but if there was a spy on the loose . . .

"Oh, no, sir!". Gil replied, aghast at the very thought of dealing with something like that! "Not THAT sort of mole! In the ground, that sort! Making a mess of the lawn, what's left of it, but more to the point, they've started elsewhere! The obstacle course 'as a few more surprises than the lads might be expecting, and I doubt a sprung ankle is going to 'elp matters any, not with Chief just getting over 'is. They get bunged up enough across the way, you know. Just, before I bring in anyone to take care of the situation, thought I should give you a bit of warning there'll be a stranger on the grounds til it's done."

A visit by the local vermin catcher suggested by Constable Miller had dealt with the mole problem in short order, much to the interest and relief of the soldiers and the guys on the team alike. Then Campbell, the vermin catcher, made off, his haul of moles - soon-to-be mole-skins - in the back of his pack, and they were back to business as usual. 

Well, after that odd and slightly-uncomfortable encounter between Goniff, Chief and Casino and the sole remaining mole the vermin catcher had missed.

"There's another one," Goniff said with disgust, brushing the dirt off the front of his shirt, pointing to the rapid movement in the raised tunnel now forming across the grass. "Thought Campbell was supposed to get all those little rats!"

"They're moles, Goniff, not rats!" Casino snorted with amusement. "Looked a little like one yourself there, your nose plowing the ground like that!"

"Well, you aint gonna be laughing when YOU land face-first on the ground after stepping in one of them 'oles," Goniff retorted.

"Here, I'll get him," Chief offered, stepping forward with the shovel the mole catcher had left leaning to one side. It took one careful aim, just as he'd seen Campbell do - a fast plunging and flip of the tool, and the dark-coated mole was on its back on the scraggly lawn, feet scrabbling at thin air, unharmed but confused at the sudden interruption and change of local.

"Well, what are you waiting for, Indian? Kill the little sucker," Casino demanded as Chief leaned over and picked up the creature very carefully.

"I just want to get a good look; never saw one up close, not still breathing. And I think maybe it's a her, not a him," came the response, as Chief took his time looking at the details while avoiding the sharp claws. "Not that there's much to tell by looking," he admitted, "but it just FEELS like a her, you know?"

"Damn it, you gonna kill it or ask it out on a date?" Casino said impatiently, and Chief gave him a dirty look, but started to get a grasp around the mole like he'd seen Campbell do before snapping its neck.

"Wait, no! Don't! I wanna look, too," Goniff said urgently, there being something odd, even disturbing flickering over his mobile face.

None of them noticed Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins watching from the shadow of the nearby column, at first in annoyance that Campbell had missed one, then in confusion at the exchange between three men over one captive mole. Garrison and Actor had stepped up alongside, Actor with obvious disgust at Chief's bare-handed handling of the animal. 

Garrison, on the other hand, was watching with anticipation. Well, the interaction between his guys often WAS amusing, and they could come up with the damnest things sometimes, though a mole was something new in the mix.

"So, what're you looking FOR, Goniff? The color of its eyes? Whether it's wearing a ring? I admit it's about your size, but think you have enough on your plate with Meghada, don't you?" Casino snarked.

Goniff gave that about as much notice as it deserved, which was none, and stepped closer, putting out one cautious finger to stroke along the velvety back of the shivering mole. His eyes grew larger as he did that again and again, noticing the mole wasn't shivering so much anymore, was even seeming to make eye contact with him, though with eyes that small and scrunched together it was kinda hard to be sure. Still, it FELT like she was looking at him, maybe asking him to understand, somehow. And the scary thing was, maybe he did, or at least started to, because instead of feeling annoyed at his tumble, or even just curious, now he was puzzled, maybe little ashamed of his former outburst.

"Didn't expect 'im, I mean 'er, to be that soft," he admitted. "Velvety-like, you know? Not too much on looks, 'ave to admit, but then some of us could say the same, eh, Casino?" giving their safecracker a sideways smirk. Still, it was obvious his heart wasn't into teasing Casino; he was too fascinated by the small creature Chief was holding.

"Never thought about it before," he admitted with a worried frown, "but it don't really seem fair. Not from 'er point of view, anyway. I mean, there she is, living 'er own life, doing w'atever moles are supposed to be doing, not going out of 'er way to do any real 'arm, not on purpose. Don't know why she decided to start on the lawn there, or the course or anything else; don't know w'at she was thinking, but doubt she was doing it just to piss us off. Just trying to 'ave a safe place to be, looking for a decent meal, doing 'er best to just get by. Then bang!, someone decides they 'ave more of a right than you do, that you're in their way, and Bob's your uncle and you're in a trap or on the wrong end of a shovel or maybe a boot or a fist, or getting your neck snapped like Campbell did with that last one. Just don't seem right, just cause you're a little mole, something most wouldn't think was of much use. Thinking you're just a pest, something the world would maybe be better off without."

He was silent for a few seconds - seconds that drew that dark cloud that had gathered above closer around him in an unwelcome and dank embrace. 

He swallowed heavily, then looked at the other two, entreaty open in his eyes. Casino was just looking impatient, but Chief nodded patiently, seeing, acknowledging more of what had prompted that change of attitude in the pickpocket. 

The younger man waited, knowing what was coming. He knew, but he wasn't going to volunteer; if Goniff wanted this badly enough, he was gonna have to speak up. HE sure wasn't going to; at least, he hoped it wouldn't be necessary. If nothing else, Casino would never let him live it down, not if HE suggested something that screwy. He didn't have to wait long.

"We don't 'ave to kill 'er, do we? Maybe we can just let 'er go? And, maybe we can convince the Sergeant Major not to call in Campbell next time? Wouldn't 'urt us to just watch w'ere we're stepping, would it?"

His mouth worked as if tasting something bitter, acrid, and he gave an odd shiver of his own. "Not fair, someone deciding they're better off with 'er gone, not w'en all she's wanting is a safe place to be, a decent meal now and again, a warm place to sleep. Just not fair . . ." His voice trailed off, and the look on his face now was far too telling, too personal. Somehow the others had a feeling he wasn't just seeing one solitary mole anymore; wasn't talking just about the mole either.

Rawlins opened his mouth to chime in, tell them to just finish it and get back with training, only to stop, startled, as Garrison laid a cautioning hand on his arm, accompanied by a firm head-shake. 

Garrison was feeling a little uneasy too, seeing in that small velvet-coated mole more than he was comfortable seeing, especially with what he was seeing on Goniff's face, with Chief not far behind. 

{"Someplace safe to be, a decent meal, a warm place to sleep. So, alright, with the war, we, none of us, have all that very often. But for me, it was just since the war. For them . . .? How often did either of them have any of that, even before?"}

He waited; with all the layers underlying the current mole situation, it would be interesting to see how it turned out. He was more than a little curious, though he did finding himself hoping Chief didn't just snap the small creature's neck like he'd been intending. Now, it just seemed too personal, wrong, somehow, and he was pretty sure Goniff would not take it well.

Actor rolled his eyes, but had refrained from commenting, seeing Garrison preferred it that way . As for himself, anthropomorphizing small underground vermin would perhaps, at least in the early days, have started him on some pithy, if extremely unflattering, comparisons. Anymore, he could still feel the urge, but it was as if he'd developed what Garrison called 'a better, if not totally good, angel'. In fact, he found himself a little ashamed of some of those automatic thoughts, the harsh put-downs that ran through his head. 

{"Well, at least I refrain from expressing them as much as I once did. Such low-hanging fruit to be wasting my efforts on, anyway, and they wouldn't appreciate my comments, and neither would Craig. Even I must admit, while the comparisons would be well-worded, witty even, perhaps with a classical quotation or two to enhance the moment, they really would not be true."} That last was a startling admission, even though he'd only admitted it to himself.

Chief watched, saw the pained look of resignation as Goniff reluctantly pulled his hand back after not getting any reply from the other two. Then that look changed in a flash to something not nearly so obvious, and Chief wondered what the little man had in mind. Somehow, he figured he'd find it interesting, maybe even amusing. Well, it was, both.

"If it 'as to be done, shouldn't be you; was me w'at took that fall, after all. I'll take 'er, deal with 'er, you know, not make you go to the bother," Goniff offered, not quite meeting Chief's eyes, that helpful smile not ringing quite true for once.

Chief gave him a dry non-committal look. {"Yeah, I could turn it over to him to 'deal with', but we'd probably just find it in the Dorm with us, hiding in the blankets or in a basket underneath his cot. Probably find Goniff trying to hand-feed it worms, which could work for awhile, but what about when we're gone? Not enough up there for it to eat on its own. Sergeant Major would freak out once he caught on, and it'd end up dead for sure."}

He let a flicker of a smile cross his face before he made a suggestion. 

"She stays here, she's gonna get hurt, maybe someone else too, Goniff, in one of those holes she'll make. That old summerhouse they tore down behind the orchard; there used to be a lawn there. Still enough left for one mole, anyhow. Dug worms there for fishing before, so there's enough to feed her."

Goniff's eyes brightened - indeed his whole face started to glow with hope. "You think she wouldn't mind, us taking 'er over there? Maybe start a nice tunnel for 'er, even?"

"Figure she'd like it just fine, Goniff," Chief assured him. "Here, Pappy, get the shovel," thrusting the tool at the fuming Casino with one hand, not even watching to make sure the safecracker grabbed hold, while gently clasping the bewildered mole in the other. "Let's get her settled before the Warden comes looking for us."

Casino grumbled under his breath, but obediently trailed along after, shovel over his shoulder. "Shit, of all the dumb things to be doing! You guys owe me one!"

"Stop bitching, Pappy; didn't ask you to carry the mole, did I?" Chief laughed, something he rarely did. There was just something about this whole setup that made him feel good, more than just the expression on Goniff's face.

"I'll carry 'er, Chiefy. I'd like to, really," Goniff said eagerly. "I can explain to 'arriet w'at we're doing and why. Don't want 'er to be scared any more; want 'er to know there's a nice place up a'ead. No guarantees, of course, but not too many of those floating around anyway. But, still - a chance for a nice life, maybe - that's worth something!"

Casino choked in the background. "Harriet??! Sheesh, now yer naming that damned thing??! Maybe I'm gonna HAVE to tell Meghada she's got some serious competition! I find you slippin' over here to get cozy with 'Harriet', I'm gonna, I warn you!"

He was totally ignored while the other two dealt with the transfer of 'Harriet'.

Chief stopped, carefully slid the mole into Goniff's waiting hands. "Don't let her wiggle away or drop her. And watch the claws; they're sharp," he cautioned and Goniff nodded, never taking his eyes off the small creature, murmuring softly to it as they headed for that safe haven back behind the orchard.

Garrison watched, not saying a word til the men were out of sight. 

{"No guarantees, but maybe a chance for a nice life - someplace safe, with a decent meal waiting and a warm place to sleep. Yes, that's worth something - for her, for you too."}. 

He smiled to himself, making a few unvoiced, though heartfelt, promises - well, heartfelt intentions, since 'promises' implied something too close to a guarantee, and as Goniff had said, there really were no guarantees, not in wartime, not in life itself.

"Craig, really? We are now acting as housing agents for vermin?" Actor said, unable to let the whole incident just pass. He could tell by Rawlins' expression, the non-com agreed with the sentiment.

Garrison didn't reply for a moment. He had pretty much read Actor's mind, and though he appreciated those comparisons never reaching the open air, he still mentally shook his head at them being made in the first place. 

He'd made a few comparisons of his own, watching, listening, and his reaction had been quite a bit different, more of an inner revelation at how Goniff and Chief had obviously seen things.

"Like Goniff said, Actor. Looking at it from the mole's point of view, it really was unfair. Just going along, living her life, doing the best she could to get by. It wasn't as if she intended any real harm. Maybe we can't really get inside her head, know what she's thinking, feeling, know her motives, but . . . "

He froze, a thought suddenly occuring to him. "I've got to work on my notes on that Lisbon Street mess. Gil, get everyone to the range when the guys come back, but don't go after them til they do. Give them time. And, don't bring up the subject of the mole, okay? And don't call Campbell and 'rat out' the mole! Leave her alone - let her live her life!"

Actor and Rawlins looked at each other, then back at the rapidly retreating officer, hearing that excited muttering, "getting inside the mole's head! Figuring out what she's thinking, feeling, what her motives really are - yes, that's what I have to do! Well, after I re-label that notebook. I think maybe 'A Mole's Point Of View' would pretty well sum it up!"

Actor shrugged in resignation, "best do as he says, Sergeant Major. No, I do not understand it, but it seems important to him. And to the others, I suppose."

Rawlins just nodded, not able to think of anything worthy to say. {"All that commotion over a mole! Looking at it from the mole's point of view? I'd say it must be a Yank sort of a thing, but it was Goniff w'at started on that line. Tell you w'at, I ever start trying to think of things from a mole's point of view, I'm going to start to wonder about myself, and that's the truth!"}

He thought that even after seeing how pleased with himself Goniff was upon their return, the self-satisfied look Chief had about him. Even Casino had a reluctant smile on his face when the three returned from their relocation project. 

And what about Casino? Yeah, so he still thought it was a little dumb, but listening to Goniff reassuring that damned mole, making all kinds of predictions for "the nice place you're gonna 'ave, 'arriet, a nice dark tunnel all your own, all them nice worms just waiting for you to eat anytime you get 'ungry!" - he had to admit it gave him a warm feeling he'd never expected to feel. Not for the mole - frankly he didn't really give a damn about the mole, but that look on Goniff's face, like he'd just been handed the moon and the stars all in one bundle, that was worth making the effort all by itself. Not like he intended to share that with anyone, but from that knowing grin, that slap on the shoulder he'd gotten from Chief, he kinda figured at least one person had figured it out.

Then the team was sent out on a mission that satisfied even Garrison's desire for being actively involved in the war effort, and then Garrison inserted himself back into that Lisbon Street affair, much to his satisfaction, if not so much a few other people's. 

"So what gave you the first clue, Lieutenant, if I might ask?" Major Kevin Richards asked over that glass of Scotch he'd ordered for them at his club before Garrison left to retrieve his team for their next little 'walk in the park'.

"Something one of my men said, about looking at it from the mole's point of view. No, a totally different mole, the furry kind, but it struck me, that's what I hadn't been doing, what it seems NO ONE had been doing. Oh, the circumstantial evidence was there, alright. Miss Smith HAD been snooping in the files, in some of the offices. HAD been chatting up some of the various personnel, asking questions she probably shouldn't have. But it was the why of it that never really made sense. Why would she turn traitor, if she did?"

"You didn't think the report of her brother's disgrace, then death, was sufficient?" Richards responded with a raised brow.

"For anger, yes, for frustration. For needing to know the details, certainly. But for what she was being accused of, spying for the enemy? That wasn't such a given, not really, not for a grade school teacher with an impeccable reputation. And it turned out her suspicions were right on target. Bradley Smith ISN'T a coward, or a traitor - he isn't even dead. Yes, I understand the need for a cover story of some sort for his disappearing like that, for his going in as an undercover agent, but it seems to me the Powers That Be could have come up with something not quite so devastating to his sister."

Richards nodded, "indeed, Lieutenant. But Carlin never has been a man of much sensibility. Although I'm certain the long history of animosity between the two families had nothing to do with the matter. No, no, of course not," he said earnestly, if not sincerely, thinking about his sister Julie or Garrison's sister Lynn having to face such accusations about their brothers. "Although when it became apparent that she was actively looking for answers, it does seem unreasonable that he could not have found a less harmful way of dealing with her inquiries than having her arrested as an enemy agent."

Garrison looked thoroughly disgusted. It hadn't been easy uncovering the truth, and even once he had, finding a remedy hadn't been as simple as laying matters before the Powers That Be. THEY seemed to consider it more important to maintain the original story than to risk it by amending it somewhat, by releasing the unfortunate Marcella Smith from custody. Indeed he and Richards had both failed miserably in their efforts to get the PTB to amend that story enough to free Miss Smith from the cell Colonel Carlin had dropped her into, gaining one or two more black marks in their records as being obstructive and uncooperative in the process, being 'unable to grasp the larger picture'.

The one more pleasant note in Garrison and Richards' quiet and exceedingly private conversation had been speculating on how Carlin or anyone else was going to explain that empty cell that Marcella Smith had occupied. 

Oh, it hadn't happened yet, but there had been a certain smile, an uplifted brow of righteous amusement and impending retribution, and frankly neither officer thought it necessary (or even wise) to inquire further. That calm "well, I'm sure you will get any updates on the situation after you return from your next mission, Craig, and Kevin as well. You ARE leaving tomorrow, aren't you? At least, that's what I surmise from Goniff's eating two desserts 'to tide me over til we get back'.

They were reasonably sure Miss Smith, the only remaining member of her family other than her brother, would do well enough, as well as could be hoped for under the circumstances. Perhaps she would spend the rest of the war, and perhaps longer, under a different name, under the protection of individuals best left unnamed. They were both sure certain clarifying entries would be made to her file, as well as to her brother's, in due time - also undertaken by that unseen hand. In fact, Garrison wouldn't be surprised if there weren't a few clarifying entries tucked into Carlin's file as well. He found that a comforting thought.

And, indeed, it was only a few days later (when Lieutenant Garrison, his team AND Major Richards were all across the Channel busy doing something or other, classified due to the war effort, you know) when a highly-confused Marcella Smith pondered the strange events of the recent past. 

Shifting from her post as a teacher for one as a tea-girl cum 'secret agent' in an effort to discover the truth about her brother; finding herself accused of treason and tossed into a cold and uncomfortable cell; now, being treated as an honored guest in this new place. She didn't know where she was, exactly, the car's windows having been shaded, but for the moment she took comfort in the fact that she was once again clean, in clothes that might not fit very well but were also clean and in good repair, and was being regarded with a kind eye by the older woman who, upon Marcella's arrival three days ago, had introduced herself as Dolores and proceeded to treat her as a younger sister. 

Of course, none of that brought nearly as much comfort as the news that Bradley was still alive, was not in disgrace - was, indeed, still serving his country, but in a role not to be acknowledged or discussed in any way for his own safety's sake. If all the rest still bewildered her more than a little, she was willing to focus on that, certainly the most important thing! Of course, the offer she'd just received was of some importance too.

"So, that leaves us with you, my dear. It has occurred to the friend who managed to spirit you out of that ridiculous confinement - would you be interested in teaching again? In caring for children in general? She has a friend who runs a small establishment doing just that thing, someone who is in need of someone to help do right by her charges. You would receive a modest salary, in addition to room and board, of course."

Marcella gaped. Of all the things she had expected, a job offer wasn't on the list. 

Actually, she wasn't sure what WAS on the list - she was still trying to recover from that odd encounter when she was coming back from yet another attempt to get her to admit to spying for the enemy. 

{"As if I would EVER do such a thing! My only purpose was to find out what really happened with Bradley, to clear his name!"}. 

The sudden appearance of various roughly-dressed individuals, laughing, joking, pushing and shoving as they shouted rude stories to each other, obviously intoxicated, had distracted her attendants while moving her from one big building back to the car they'd arrived in, and somehow, before they could manage the situation, she'd been pulled away and then wisked away around a corner, into a different car, and then here!

Dolores sipped her tea, waited while the young woman regained her composure. 

"I would like that," Marcella said, though with hesitation. "I love working with children, had thought to make it my life's work. But they will be looking for me; that would be dangerous for the children, your friend, surely?" she offered, scarcely daring to hope.

"Well, it will mean changing your appearance, surely," Dolores admitted. "Those pretty blonde curls will have to disappear. Miss Jane Clausen, the new teacher, will have straight hair, dark, with brows to match. She will probably wear glasses as well, perhaps darkened ones to accommodate her reduced vision, her sensitive eyes. And she will not go about much, being quite shy and reserved. But still, it would not be too onerous an existence, I would think. You will be doing the work you prefer, work you seem to be quite good at. And you could always become someone quite different when the war is behind us. And when your brother returns, we will see that he knows you are safe, will know how to find you when the time comes. And of course, you will be apprised when he returns as well."

And so it was that a grateful Rebecka Standish welcomed her new assistant, Miss Jane Clausen, to help teach, care for, and protect the vulnerable charges entrusted to her at the Orphanage in Brandonshire. A shy thing, Miss Clausen, everyone acknowledged, rarely seen out and about, but seeming to be quite good with the tikes from all reports. And, wonder of wonders, it appeared she even could understand and communicate with those newest ones, the ones speaking only something called 'Basque', though quickly learning to master their first words in English with her help.

(And after the war, when her brother arrived to hold her so tightly, exclaim indignantly over her treatment by the ones he'd served so faithfully, and to assure her it was safe to reclaim her name, her former life, she was able to reassure him that, no, she was quite happy with her new name, her new existence. Indeed, Jane Standish, affectionately called Marcy Jane by her loving husband, the Reverend Daniel Standish, wouldn't have it any other way.)

Things had fallen back into what passed as the norm for a couple of weeks, although the team had not yet returned from their latest assignment.

Rawlins had nearly forgotten about the incident with the mole when he responded to that call from HQ. He would find himself remembering it all too soon. 

It had seemed simple enough, that phone call, if rather puzzling in the lack of details.

"Report to the Bristol Bellingham building, on Leaden Street, Sergeant Major, Office 27. Ask for Mr. Jones. No, not HQ; not for this matter. Too hush-hush for that. The man you will meet will explain everything." 

The names, both of the caller and the one he was to meet, were unfamiliar to him, but it had obviously been from HQ; enough had been said to identify at least that much.

Gil drove back to the Mansion in a daze, trying to process what had been asked - no, what in essence had been demanded of him. He just couldn't wrap his mind around it though. Him? Set to being what was called a mole?? 

No matter how simple a matter that man in the office had made it seem, he knew it was no such thing. Even leaving aside the betrayal of trust that would certainly involve, (and that was a very, very big item to be leaving aside to his way of thinking!), he just didn't have the skills - all that slipping around, spying on people and such, telling all kinds of lies to keep anyone from catching on.

Nevermind what that man in the moustache said about it being not only a matter of duty, but a matter of patriotism, one that any loyal soldier would be proud to undertake, Rawlins had more doubts than he could shake a stick at. He'd accepted that explanation regarding certain intimate encounters with various females as outlined in Lieutenant Garrison's preliminary debriefings, that 'patriotic duty' as Goniff and the other men reassured him was no less than the plain truth, but this was something a bit else.

{"And if ever there was a fake bit of hair, that wig and moustache was a fair example - should 'ave Actor give 'im a few lessons,"} had come as an unbidden thought.

He found himself glad it was such a long drive back to Brandonshire; he had a lot to think about. And the more he thought, the more the hair on the back of his neck was standing up. 

{"Wonder if the Lieutenant's little 'early warning system' might be catching? W'atever it's trying to tell me, it's none too pleasant, not to my mind!"}

He had worked with Garrison long enough, attended enough briefings, heard enough of the aftermath of various missions, various cons, to see the dangers involved, and not just the ones that mysterious 'Mr. J' had laid out at that secret meeting in that office obviously not used by that individual on a regular basis from the dust laying about. He could think of several ways he was perhaps being conned, at least being used for purposes he was none too confident would be to his, the team's or the country's advantage.

On a sudden impulse, he pulled off at a small pub a few villages away from Brandonshire, went inside and ordered a pint. Taking out his small notebook and pen, he outlined his thoughts so far. {"Another thing I must be catching from the Lieutenant, this need to be making notes of things that catch my mind,"} he huffed in mild amusement as he took a swig.

{"So, even if it's straightforward, nothing twisted about it, it means spying on the Lieutenant and the men. Don't like the notion of that at all. Got enough on their plate without such, and them coming to trust me like they 'ave. And it's not so much Mr. J seems to think they're up to no good in a way that would mean someone should report it - no black market dealing, or stealing of medical shipments, or slipping information to Jerry or such. It's the little things, things you'd think too unimportant to even think about - who they are best acquainted with locally, who they write letters to or get letters from, which of them is closest to one of the others, which maybe has a grudge or two against one of the others too."} Things Rawlins didn't understand why anyone would be asking about, which made it even more suspicious to his mind.

It was a quandry - or was it? He was a soldier in the service of his country. He'd been told what was expected of him. 

One thing he knew for certain, just from the way it had been worded - he was only being trusted just so far.

What he didn't know, but what he knew he needed to consider? For one, who the watcher was, the one who'd be reporting back if he took a misstep. Other than the one he was to report to, of course. It might be most efficient for those to be one and the same, but if there was any skullduggery in the works, it would be best to have the watcher someone he wouldn't even notice, surely.

Was he to be watched? Well, that had been unsaid, but more than obvious, with that "and I need to know YOUR usual routine, Sergeant Major. Where you're likely to go other than your home base, who you tend to come into contact with. Oh, we have no suspicions of anyone, certainly, you least of all, but one must be thorough. If we know your usual routine, then it will be easier to see anything out of the ordinary, anything the Lieutenant or one of the men might have, well, misled you into undertaking. They are a remarkably sly bunch, it would seem."

He could still hear himself obediently measuring out his meager ventures away from the Mansion and its grounds. 

"To London w'en duty requires it, same with the Base. Church in the village for Sunday services, when duty permits. Pub for a pint on occasion. 'Ousegoods store and such, as needs become known. And the Orphanage." That last had come out without his even thinking about it, certainly without him intending to do any such a thing.

Mr. J had noted all that down, hesitating only over the last. "The Orphanage, Sergeant Major? And what might you be doing at the Orphanage?"

Rawlins had answered without hesitation, "oh, I take on a chore, 'ere and there, when the Mistress comes up with something in my line." He remembered flushing just a little as he admitted, "take tea with 'er on occasion. Mostly after Church services, but sometimes betimes. A very upright dutiful lady, she is, no nonsense about her. Keeps me focused on my proper duty, watching her be so mindful of fulfilling 'er own."

"What are her connections in the village, if I might ask," Mr. J said, just a hint of concern in his voice.

"The minister's maiden sister, sir. Came to keep 'ouse for 'im, but took over the Orphanage duties w'en the previous Mistress was called elsewhere unexpectedly. Wasn't w'at she was intending, I'm sure, but as I said, a very upright dutiful lady, not turning away from the burden that was laid on 'er shoulders."

A question or two, answered without hesitation. "Does she mix with the others in the village? Not so much that I can tell. Well, 'as 'er position, 'er reputation to consider, and you know 'ow small places can be with all the talk. Per'aps she takes tea or passes the time of day with one or two of the senior village matrons, but mostly tends 'er job taking care of the tykes. Certainly doesn't mix with any who might be a bad influence on them, you know, any rough or unseemly ones; most particular about that, she is."

Now Rawlins flushed again, in embarrassment at all he'd said, all he'd implied. He went over all the inaccurate, or at least misleading things he'd shared with Mr. J.

ONCE. He'd taken tea at the Orphanage exactly ONCE, and that only a very few weeks ago. And somehow, in how he described her, he'd made her sound like a prim, stiff-lipped old bat with not a hint of the kindness, the gentle good humor the woman showed on a daily basis, and not just with him. 

The slight huff he made then was at the picture he'd held resolutely, forceably, in his mind as he'd described Miss Rebecka Standish - a picture far more someone like Mrs. Deems than the pleasant young woman who'd sat across the tea table from him on that memorable occasion, or smiled at him from across the pews at church, or when they met on the street.

{"Now why did I bring 'er into the mix in the first place? 'E was asking about my 'routine', and once doesn't make a routine. And why was I making 'er out so different from w'at she is?"}

Frowning, reading over his notes once more, he paused to give an absent nod at the barmaid inquiring as to whether he wanted another pint. Then he sat mulling over all he saw in front of him, all he'd been cautious enough to leave 'between the lines' so to speak. {"Well, a fine thing if I write everything out clear as a spring day and Mr. J 'as someone outside to snaffle my notes! Wouldn't put it past 'im, come to think."}

"First the 'air on the back of my neck starting to act funny. Then, the note taking, though being crafty and sly with the w'ole process. Now, drawing lines in my mind like I'm making pictures or connecting dots. Worried some about me catching some of the lads' tricksy ways; never thought it would 'appen with the Lieutenant," he muttered under breath.

For now he KNEW why he'd included Rebecka Standish in that listed routine. He could trust her, he was sure of that; could count on her. She wasn't one to step aside from doing what was right, doing her duty just because it might be inconvenient, or hard, or even dangerous. 

Just as he now knew where he stood on this business of being a 'mole'. From what he could tell by the network of tunnels and from his conversation with the varmint catcher, moles could head off in just about any direction. It was difficult to predict just where they'd go next. Maybe he could use that to his advantage. He didn't necessarily HAVE to go in the direction the mysterious Mr. J pointed. And if the ground got a little unstable under anyone's feet, it just might be that man in the bad wig and even worse moustache!

Of course, it could just as easily be HIM on that shaky ground, he knew that full well. Still, those hairs on the back of his neck just might be right, about the man and his trustworthiness and everything else, and he wasn't going to betray the Lieutenant and the lads out of blind overeagerness to obey orders. Not till he did some more thinking, maybe asked for input from a certain devious female of his acquaintance, along with help from one perhaps not so devious, but one he knew he could trust.

And he knew one more thing - when this was all over, he was going to have to have a strong word with Lieutenant Garrison about all that wishful thinking he'd been so adamant about - about wanting something more 'interesting' than the problems they been dealing with lately. Well, now they HAD something more interesting, and Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins, for one, would have just as soon passed!

Oh, and one more thing. He was never going to look at moles in quite the same way again. Had a hard way to go, moles, it was fast becoming clear to him. Never thought he'd be looking at things from a mole's point of view, but that was life. One surprise after another.

For a breathcatching moment he thought he'd made a huge mistake by approaching her with this. She'd just stared at him, blinked, got up, paced around the room once, before coming back to sit opposite him once again.

"Again. Tell me that again, please," Rebecka demanded, and Gil drew in a deep breath and proceeded to do just that.

Her face was angry now, and he winced. Why on earth he had ever thought . . .

"How DARE they??! Of all the impossible, outrageous things!!!" and she was off. He listened in awe and more than a little admiration as Rebecka expounded on just what she thought of Mr. J and that assignment. 

{"Not a coarse word, nary a one, but a finer take-me-down I doubt I've ever 'eard! Well, except from the O'Donnell miss, but hers being not in such a lady-like fashion."}

Finally Rebecka drew a breath that seemed to come from the toes of her shoes it was so deep.

"Alright, so what can I do to help, Gil? It's obvious you are going to do no such thing, what's being asked, at least not in the manner that awful man was intending. Tell me; I'll do whatever I can."

"Any untoward activity?" Mr. J asked prefunctorily. Well, he saw no reason to think there would be; if ever there was a meek and mild prospect for a little operation like this, it was Sergeant Major Gil Rawlins. Oh, a reliable man, according to his military records - not a blemish there - but a man used to taking orders, doing what he was told and not thinking beyond. Anyone could see that. Yes, a perfect mole!

{"Even to the 'being blind' part! Amusing, in fact, all I laid out, and him just sitting there nodding, blinking, not suspecting even for a moment I was anyone other that who I was purporting to be, or intending anything other than the most righteous of patriotic motives! If only ALL Englishmen were such fools! Well, he IS Cockney; that possibly accounts for it."}

"None, his activities have followed the outline you gave us. Two trips to London, both initiated by his superiors on legitimate business. One to the closest Base, some issue with the Supply Officer; they seem to have an on-going mutual animosity there. That might be something to consider if we have to take more, well, permanent action; I think we could manage for their enemies at the Base to be the first to come under suspicion if anyone bothers to look too closely at anything unexpectedly tragic that should occur, some toxicity in the food supply, perhaps.

"Other than that, he's attended church services two out of the last three Sundays; taken tea at the Orphanage one of those two times. At least, he showed up, all tidy and eager, then and two times else, and with someone with his obvious lack of imagination, I suppose tea is all he was looking for and all he got for the trouble. I only caught a glimpse of the lady in question, not a good look; doubt there's all that much to see, she was all buttoned up, bonnet that shielded her face, but with as much sun as they've been having, she was hardly the only one.

"The watcher stayed in the shadows the whole time, said no one else went in or out except for an old woman delivering baskets of laundry one time, and she didn't stay long. We put a second watcher on the Orphanage just in case, but the lady doesn't seem to go about much - housegoods store, church, a walk or two in the park. Gives a nod, has a word or two with those she meets, but no close conversations. Lots of children around, of course. The official count seems to be eighteen or so. Didn't see any other staff around, except for one young chit who came to put the youngsters through jumps and leaps and such, AND teach them songs and singing, of all things. He asked, was told it was the younger sister of one of the locals. Seems the girl, maybe thirteen or so, sometimes visited, but seemed to get bored easily, liked to escape the older feminine skirts and this gave her a good excuse. Not a mixer with anyone else, from what the bartender at the Pub told the watcher, a little shy. None of the locals seemed to know much; an odd duck, perhaps, but harmless. 

"Well, the locals aren't the talkative bunch, and our watcher is an outsider, though posing as a business traveler resting from an overly-long journey. Understandable they'd not pour out their hearts to him. Still, he got no hint anyone was being sly or misleading in what they did say, just they had no interest in talking to someone from 'away'.

"Our watcher tried to have a sit down with the village gossip, a layabout by the name of Doby, maybe buy him a round of drinks or two, get the inside story of the place, some of the people. But seems this Doby had a run-in with the local Constable and is locked up tight, no visitors allowed. Public vulgarity and being a general nuisance is what I gather the charges to be. From what I could tell, that's not an uncommon occurrance with the man. Seems the majority of the village think Constable Miller is making a mistake, not by locking him up but by not throwing away the key.

"So, to get back to our mole, he's done just as he ought to do, nothing otherwise, made no contacts we shouldn't have been expecting, certainly no one who might be a danger to the operation."

Mr. J smiled a cold satisfied smile. "Yes, I doubt we will have any trouble from our Sergeant Major. The first reports were quite promising. Oh, not something we can use, not yet, all irrelevant bits and pieces, but these things take time. I'll make my own report to Mr. S later today. Congratulations to you and your team, Mr. D; keep up the good work."

Garrison and the team got back from Limoges in fairly good health and in even better spirits. Well, why not? The job had gone smoothly for once, intel spot on, contacts alive and well and very helpful. The pipeline they'd been sent in to secure after ridding it of that malevolent infiltrator was once again running well, many who had been under severe threat now once again making their way to safety and freedom. The guys had stayed out of any trouble unrelated to the job. Yes, Garrison was pleased.

The guys? Well, it had been an interesting assignment, they got the job done, and no one on their side had gotten roughed up, so they marked it down as a big win. It didn't hurt that the side haul had been profitable as well - oh, not anything to set off fireworks about, not like some, but still, enough to add a bit into the Swiss accounts, all without the Warden getting wise. 

And Goniff was still chuckling over his own personal souvenir - a very old saucer, off-white trimmed with gold, carried home in a small excelsior-lined paste-board box hardly bigger than the saucer itself. He figured the museum would never miss it, it having been locked away in that glass case way in the back with a few other little pieces.

"What, you collecting for your hope chest now?" Casino had scoffed.

Goniff ignored him, holding the small china piece up to the light to admire the scene.

Well, what wasn't to like? A tow-headed country lad, sitting cross-legged on the ground, having a sandwich, enjoying a quiet peaceful moment with a new-found friend. A small, pointy-nosed, big-footed, velvety-coated friend - a mole - nibbling away at a tiny bit of that sandwich that had been shared. 

"Thing is, Casino, Actor's right! You just ain't got any taste for fine art!"

Actor sighed. For once Goniff was closer to right than not, though not about the piece not being likely to be missed. He imagined the curator was tearing his hair out by now. While the subject matter did not appeal to him, that saucer was one of the earliest and rarest examples of its kind, and quite valuable if for no other reason. 

The jubilant mood changed when they were brought into the local picture. Having someone change the game, try and turn them into the marks, trying to use Rawlins that way - that didn't go down well. 

It had been Old Howie who'd showed up at the Mansion with the irate summons from Mrs. Wilson, the old washer woman. 

"Right pissed she is too, Lieutenant! Don't know what your lads 'ave been up to, but she hasn't calmed down the entire time you've been gone. Near 'ad my ears boxed when I told her I COULDN'T fetch you, as you and them were out and gone again! I'd take it as a favor if you go 'ave a word right away, I would!"

The guys pleaded innocence all around, and truly not even Goniff could think of anything they could have done to cause the usually congenial old woman to take to fits like that.

A quick visit had resulted in a heavy foreboding frown as she met him at the door, that frown turning to a sly smile after she'd closed the door behind them, a warm chuckle and an urging to sit "for a cup of garden mint, Lieutenant. A quick call to fetch the lass, and you'll be needing that and more, most likely." She'd tapped the side of the cast iron fireplace reflector, and he was startled to see a panel pop open, and a telephone slide into view. 

Understanding came swiftly enough to make him feel a headache coming on when he heard the old woman assure whoever was on the other end, "he's here, finally. Back way, of course; I'll be watching to let you in. And best bring a drop of the best, child - likely he's going to be needing it."

When he saw who had come for the clandestine meeting, he groaned. Yes, he'd had a suspicion it would be her. He was even glad to see her again, certainly, but highly suspicious of the circumstances and roundaboutation of the meeting. 

{"But at least she brought a bottle - a 'drop of the best', indeed, from what I can tell. I have a feeling Mrs. Wilson is right - I'm likely to be going to need it!"}

Meghada had seemed to find at least a moment or two of amusement in the tale, as had Mrs. Wilson. Not much, not about the necessity, but a bit here and there as they explained the merry chase they'd led that watcher - actually, TWO watchers - while Gil Rawlins played a lovely and very active mole. 

"And as I understand it, the reports he's been handing in have been quite unexceptional - most inventive and most misleading. Never anything to let them get their teeth into that might cause trouble down the road, always sounding feasible and believable if somewhat dull. You'd be proud of him, Craig; you couldn't have done better yourself! In fact, he says that the whole thing is really due to watching and listening to you - from his developing an early warning system like yours, to catching that compulsion to putting things down into notes to make better sense of the dots and lines to form pictures, so to speak. Even down to something you said about looking at things from a mole's point of view! He's obviously been an exceptional student, and you just as fine a teacher!"

Garrison, on the other hand, was not amused. The guys were not amused. And Major Kevin Richards was especially not amused, and reacted accordingly. He had a few in the higher-echelons he could trust, just as they trusted him, and everyone pulled out their shovels and started digging.

Mr. D came to the surface after a brief investigation - the watchers in Brandonshire were amenable to talking after they were given the alternatives. They were just hired help, after all, not true believers.

Mr. J took longer, and it was his by-the-by mentioning of Colonel Carlin's role in the Bradley and Marcella Smith affair that caused that little matter to resurface just as it was starting to die down.

Colonel Carlin had some serious explaining to do. Garrison and Richards were more than a little pleased to find his answers hadn't been all that satisfactory to the Powers That Be. 

Oh, those Powers That Be didn't mind a little underhanded self-serving initiative now and again, being the ultimate pragmatists, but being caught at such activities was really unacceptable. Unprofessional, you know, just as was the Colonel's managing to lose track of Miss Smith. It wouldn't do for her to start talking the matter around; even with the war on, security regulations in place, the press could sometimes be surprisingly intent on telling the truth. At least they didn't have to worry about young Mr. Smith; he was proving remarkably adept at his undercover assignment and they had no intention of pulling him back until his usefulness was at an end. Time enough to be concerned about any untoward reaction on his part over the disappearance of his sister after the war.

Mr. S - well, no one was able to discover just who Mr. S was. The trail just seemed to vanish in thin air. Whether he would reappear was anybody's guess, but as Major Richards so glumly pointed out, "how would we ever really know, Garrison? The man probably has any number of identities other than his real one; doesn't seem to have any problem shedding one when it becomes inconvenient or a little risky and donning another."

Epilogue:

And in an office at the main HQ in London, a man sat behind a desk brooding over the latest failure to put an end to Lieutenant Craig Garrison and that ridiculous band of reprobates he called his 'team'. 

That he would do so eventually, he had no doubt, even if it took til after the war was over. He had no intention of being bested by the likes of them! It had become personal quite some time ago, almost a hobby, even a religion, if a man like him wanted to claim such a thing. It wasn't just that their success rate was higher than most of the other teams so that removing them was of benefit to his masters. No, their very presence was an affront to the uniform he wore. He'd worked hard to earn the right to wear that uniform, that insignia. Just because he was working for both sides didn't mean it wasn't due more respect than to allow Garrison and his team to wear a similar one!

Well, at least the ones he reported to wouldn't be annoyed at the failure. (No, not the ones at HQ, the OTHER ones!). They actually knew nothing of it. Luckily he wasn't expected to report every little foray into putting roadblocks in the Allies' way, was trusted to do as much judicious damage as possible as long as he did as they ordered in between such efforts. 

He'd been surprised, actually, how understanding they were, accepting his reasoning that loosing a thousand random arrows WAS worth the effort, well worth any minimal cost considering the potential damage that could be done. After all, if there was not a specific target, then who would be expecting the attack? And if a few of those arrows HAD a specific target, just out of general principles, he made sure not to share those unless they proved fruitful.

Giving Colonel Carlin that subtle little hint of a way to pay back those upstart Smith siblings had been one of those arrows. There had been no assurance that Carlin would actually catch on - the man wasn't much on subtlety, and there was too much danger in being overly direct - and use his position to destroy them, even with that casual mention of how young Bradley Smith was coming along rapidly, might be a good fit for that undercover operation in Norway. 

Mr. S, as he'd designated himself for this particular episode, chuckled. Once Carlin had shown interest in Bradley, he'd only to make a brief mention of various possible cover stories to put off that sister, the one who reportedly thought she was too good to even take tea with the lecherous Colonel Carlin, and he saw a feral gleam in Carlin's eyes. He'd had a feeling that would be the one Carlin would grasp - the one that would cause the most pain, the most loss, the greatest humiliation. Well, Carlin's intentions had been pretty much along those lines when he'd issued that invitation to tea anyway - seduction, destruction and pain, revenge for a long-standing debt against the family going back several generations - so it had been likely. 

Of course, if the brother actually made it back alive, there would most probably be a reckoning there of some nature, but it would be against Carlin, not Mr. S., so no matter. 

{"Hmmm, even more so if Miss Smith never reappears. Odd, her disappearing like that, the guards not seeming to have a clue of how she escaped them so easily, or who those drunkards were; not Garrison's men, certainly, though if they hadn't been across the Channel I would have thought of them right away. Pity, I was thinking it would be more effective, certainly neater, if she were found dead in her cell shortly after a celebratory gloating by Colonel Carlin. Even knew just the right thing to have slipped into her tea! Oh, well, no plan is perfect."}

"Excuse me, Major, there's a staff meeting in fifteen minutes. You asked me to remind you," a nervous young aide said, poking his head through the door warily. Well, everyone knew, Major Kingston was a temperamental sort, likely to take offense at the least little thing. Hardly anyone got off temporary detail to the stuffy officer without being written up at least once.

"Very well, Chambers. You reminded me, now go away and pull those reports I asked for. And don't make the excuse that you are due to go off duty. If you'd been quicker to get the job done, you wouldn't be having to stay after, now would you?!"

"Yes, sir. I mean, no, sir. I'll have them on your desk before I leave, Major." {"Well, there's another four hours shot, and likely to be written up for that as well! He only gave me the list an hour ago, and told me to finish that last chore before starting this one! Only two more days before it's someone else's turn, thank goodness!"}

Kingston quickly tapped the papers in front of him, tucked them into his briefcase and left, giving that slacker of an aide a stern glare. 

{"Now, who do I get to replace Mr. J? Maybe that gullible Captain Caterman? We'll see; I'll have to see what I have on him and that little gambling problem of his. It might not be enough to persuade him; he's not in over his head quite yet, but I image Louise might be able to draw him in. She likes the gaming spots, and if she can lure him to where our people can rack up some solid wins against his markers, he should be quite amenable to a few little side jobs. Yes, that could work out quite nicely,"} and Major Kingston, previously (though no longer to be) 'Mr. S', opportunist, master manipulator, mole - truly a mole extraordinaire, a 'mole's mole', if there was such a term - went off to see what other discreet havoc he could create. After all, his masters expected results and paid quite well for them.

**Author's Note:**

> The three books mentioned really are examples of Victorian erotica; even Casino with his well-diversified library might have found them over-the-top.


End file.
